The Woman That Counted
by miss.lak
Summary: Begins after the Fall. Sherlock lives with Molly Hooper after his faked death. Sharing an apartment with Sherlock Holmes was only something Molly ever dreamed of, but how will she handle the man she loves living under her roof when he insists their relationship is strictly platonic? And why can't intelligent, bright Molly Hooper believe Sherlock when he says there is nothing? SH/MH
1. Roommates

**Opening Notes: **Welcome! This opening note is just to let you, the reader, know what you're getting into before you start reading. This story is strictly Sherlock/Molly pairing. Yes, there will be sexual/romantic involvement but it isn't that cut and dry. Molly is a strong, confident woman and Sherlock has behavioral issues. In reality, this isn't the easiest paring for a relationship. So, I'm approaching this story slowly and realistically. This is my version of the time when Sherlock stayed at Molly's apartment during his supposed death. And because it's my version, the end result will be far different than the show.

With this, encouragement is greatly appreciated and even leaving a small review makes a world of difference. So, thank you ahead of time and I hope you enjoy!

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**1. Roommates **

Molly Hooper burst through her apartment door in a panic. She threw her bag, nearly hitting Toby. In an embarrassed, crazed stupor Molly jumped all over her flat, picking up random articles of clothing, anything from discarded socks to bras and ran down the hall, tossing the heap of clothes into her bedroom. She slammed the door shut and ran back into the kitchen, quickly putting dishes in the dishwasher and wiping up dried coffee stains from that morning.

When Molly woke up this morning, the last thing she expected she would have to do would help Sherlock Holmes fake his own death, and on top of it house him until everything had quieted down. She knew 221 B Baker Street was anything but a pristine palace, if it wasn't for Mrs. Hudson, she imagined Sherlock would be dead from malnutrition. But, Molly wouldn't be able to live with herself if Sherlock was to come to her apartment and it was an unruly mess. Though, Molly's flat wasn't anywhere near Sherlock's infamous state of disarray and disorderliness in his own apartment.

Even though Sherlock didn't display any emotions and was always stoic and rude, Molly wanted him to feel welcome in her home. She knew it would never be Baker Street but she cared that Sherlock felt cared for.

Still, she couldn't believe Sherlock was going to be living with her. Never in her wildest dreams did Molly ever think the infamous, handsome detective would be living with her. Molly didn't expect anything sexual and romantic to come out of the favor to him, Sherlock has always been strictly platonic when it came to her. And as the mere thought of their platonic relationship resurfaced, making an uneasy tingling feeling arise in her throat, someone knocked curtly at the door.

She rushed to the door and tore it open. Sherlock stepped over the threshold and Molly shut the door behind her. It had only felt like a minute has gone by since Sherlock pulled the stunt of his fake death and only seconds since Molly saw him in the morgue where she helped smuggle him out. His blood was still smeared on his dark coat and when her eyes finally found his, they froze her like a shallow pond in winter.

"Didn't have any trouble getting here I hope?"

Molly quickly berated herself for such a stupid question.

However, Sherlock ignored it and squinted, taking in her appearance. "Elevated heart rate, perspiration, pink cheeks, heavy breathing," he looked around the living room and back at her. "What were you doing?"

"Me?" she questioned, "Oh- um- nothing-" Molly noticed Toby move from his original position on the couch, revealing a pair of nude pantyhose. Molly jumped at them when Sherlock wasn't looking and held them behind her back. "Oh! What was I doing? I was just cleaning up, that's all."

"Why?" He sounded completely befuddled by the concept.

Molly couldn't stop herself from grinning like the love sick woman she was. Sherlock Holmes was standing in her apartment. The concept was foreign to her and she was still getting used to seeing him standing there, especially when he was dead to the world.

"Well, I wanted it to be nice for when you came over."

He narrowed his eyes, "Don't people usually do that sort of thing when they're having important company over, like a date or something?"

Molly swallowed nervously. She'd give anything to just have coffee with Sherlock, much less a date. But, that was the last thing she was thinking about after just helping him fake his death mere moments ago.

"Some people like a clean flat, Sherlock," Molly said.

"Orderliness gets in the way of creation and my thought process," he shook his head, his deep voice silky and commanding.

"I can't imagine what you'll be creating while you're here, you are hiding out," she said.

"You can't expect me to not continue with my other smaller projects, Molly."

She smiled, "Of course not."

Secretly, Molly was rather excited to watch Sherlock work on anything besides his cases. John and Mrs. Hudson had never been too keen on his experiments but Molly was thrilled to see.

"Um- let me show you around-" she began.

"What for?" he asked innocently.

She stopped short. "Um-?"

"I can't imagine there is much to show, it's a small flat."

Molly embarrassingly shoved her pantyhose in her back jeans pocket and wrung her hands together. She loved her flat, it was just the right size for her and Toby. She had been living there for years, as it was her first place living on her own. The apartment was feminine in almost every sense but it wasn't overpowered with pinks and reds. It was very laidback and almost felt like an English garden in spring time, with light hues and touches of pastels. It was one of the reasons Molly was such a homebody, she loved her flat and loved being there. It was nothing like Baker Street. Sherlock's apartment was dark, with rich tones of browns, greys and some burgundy's. Nothing had a place where Molly made every trinket and pillow have a home in her flat.

Sherlock watched her stand still and felt the sudden onset of silence. He owed Molly Hooper everything at his moment, she was the true man power and brains behind faking his death. She came up with the concoctions, splattered the fake blood and signed papers in the morgue proving his fake death. And now she was allowing him to stay in her apartment, free of charge.

"Though," he began, "I have made two deductions about where the linen closet is, care to show me which?" he asked.

Molly suddenly smiled, "Now, we both know you know where it is, Sherlock." But, she didn't argue and brushed past him. She felt him directly behind her. The closeness was comforting and never intimidated Molly. She liked when he stood close and could always smell the faintness of the cologne he wore, which has been the same since she's met him. She'd grown accustomed to the cool, clean and fresh scent. When she stopped in front of the linen closet, she opened the door and with breathy words said, "Here are the towels... the laundry closet is right down the hall."

However, when she looked up at Sherlock he wasn't looking at the closet but at her. His icy, blue eyes were squinted and focused. He reached forward, pressing two of his fingers to her neck and then her forehead. "Your heart rate is elevated again and you're incredibly warm. Your eyes are glossy and your pupils are dilated-"

Molly slammed the linen door shut and stepped away, "It's nothing- I was just cleaning, I told you-"

"One would think you have a heart condition," Sherlock began. "But, with your pupils dilated that can only mean one thing-"

"I'm starting to think you like embarrassing me," Molly said, turning away and opening the next door, trying desperately to ignore Sherlock. She didn't want him to say what he had already deduced. She had a hard enough time trying to suppress her feelings for him when they were at the hospital.

"I don't seek out to embarrass you," he said matter-of-factly, "I have far more important things to be doing but it does suggest that you're still attracted to me, whether it be physically or in some other manner-"

Molly groaned, "This is the spare bedroom, it only has a bed and a dresser and a small closet..." she met Sherlock's stare bravely and said, "You know I like you. Your deduction is old news."

He smiled for only a second, "My deduction isn't old news, it sheds light on new information."

"Really? What is that?" she asked, knowing he'd tell her one way or another.

"That despite how platonic we are, you still are attracted to me, and that is what I can't figure out."

Sherlock and Molly stared at one another in a thick silence. Molly couldn't explain to Sherlock that she wasn't just attracted to him, that she was in love with him and had been for years. She knew it was unhealthy and unrequited and the reason she was still single, but she couldn't turn it off like a light switch. She wasn't cold and calculating. The feelings she had for Sherlock Holmes were real, and she knew they had to be, because he'd never once gave her a reason that they'd be anything else than platonic.

When Molly said nothing in response, Sherlock quickly looked at the spare bedroom and back at Molly, "Where is your bedroom?"

"M-My bedroom?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Um- just down the hall-"

Sherlock brushed past her when Molly suddenly remembered the pile of clothes she tossed in there earlier. She chased after him and just barely squeezed herself in between Sherlock and her bedroom door.

"You can't go in there!"

"Why not?"

"I don't have to explain everything to you."

"Hmm. No, you don't, I can usually figure it out for myself," he shrugged, "I can always figure it out for myself. And by the way you're desperately guarding the door, even though I can easily push you aside-"

"You wouldn't dare, Sherlock," Molly said.

He smiled, "It must be something embarrassing."

"W-Well yes-"

"There is no point in being embarrassed now that we will be living together for the time being."

"I'm allowed to be embarrassed," Molly argued.

"I don't see the point of the emotion," Sherlock said, "It only hurts you, it does nothing to your opponent."

"I'm not your opponent-"

"Molly," Sherlock said her name slowly, with a hint of playfulness behind it.

He was right. He always was. They would be living together and though she knew she would have some privacy, it was nearly impossibly for anyone to have privacy with Sherlock around. Molly knew what she was signing up for when she allowed Sherlock to stay with her. She released her grip on the door knob and stepped to the side.

Sherlock opened the door and looked around the modest bedroom and stopped completely in front of the tossed clothes. Bras, panties, socks, pantyhose were all laid out.

He looked back at her, squinting humorously, "Do you keep your clothes in the middle of your room?"

She rolled her eyes, "Of course not!" Molly pushed forward and scooped up the massive pile of clothes in her arms, staring up at Sherlock through her eyelashes. "I was picking up earlier... I didn't think you'd come in here." Molly turned around and stopped abruptly when she felt the pantyhose slip out from her back pocket. She turned around, blushing bright red.

"Don't forget these," he said, holding them out to her while still taking in her bedroom. "I will be staying in your room. The spare bedroom is far too small, the bed is certainly not long enough for someone of my stature."

Molly quickly took the pantyhose. "O-Oh, um- alright then, I suppose that makes sense. I don't want you to be uncomfortable while you are here." She sounded defeated but she stood tall as she left her bedroom that was now Sherlock's and tossed her laundry on top of the washer to be cleaned later. She held the nude pantyhose in her hands and sighed, cursing at herself for looking like such a fool in front of him.

"Do you normally stare at your laundry?"

Molly jumped at the sound of his voice. He was standing behind her, staring down at her.

"N-No, I-"

"Thank you."

It was said so quickly that Molly nearly missed his gratefulness entirely. She stared up at him stunned.

Sherlock's eyes shifted away and back at her, trying to find exactly what to say. "I can trust you Molly and I don't trust easily. You are truly a good person with a kind heart, why you bother to try and befriend me confuses me entirely. Thank you for helping me today and allowing me to stay here," he stepped forward, closing the large space between them, "And keeping it a secret. I've asked a lot for you and you did it without question."

Molly smiled, overwhelmed by Sherlock's sincerity and nodded, "You can stay as long as you need to... my home is your home."

He narrowed his eyes, "I've never understood that sentiment. It's ridiculous, I would never say my home is someone else's home."

"Well, I don't know about everyone else, but when I care about someone they're allowed into every part of my life, which includes my home." Molly smiled sheepishly, "I-I care about you, Sherlock-"

"I know," he said quickly, trying to stop her from continuing, knowing precisely what direction she was headed. She dropped her head slightly at this. Sherlock smiled briefly and leaned forward, placing a chaste, innocent kiss on her cheek. "Thank you, Molly."

"You're welcome, Sherlock."

He breathed in deeply, "Well, after jumping from a building and dying, I am in need of a shower."

"Afraid there is only one bathroom," she said, "It's in my- well- your bedroom now."

"Excellent," Sherlock reached into the nearby linen closet and retrieved a towel. "Oh-" he said, turning back to face her. "I am in need of clothes."

Molly glanced at her dirty laundry and back at Sherlock, "Of course! Should I run to Baker Street-?"

"Of course not."

"Right!" She cursed at herself, "That wouldn't work, um-" she smiled, "I can go out and buy some clothes for you."

"Thank you," he nodded, "I will write my measurements down-"

"You don't need to, I already know them," Molly blushed instantly, "I-I mean, well, it's not hard to figure out and I see you, um, around so I have an idea- and, you like black and blues so that's easy to remember- um," she backed down the hallway, grabbing her coat and bag. "I'll be back in a little while. The water takes a few minutes to warm up, make yourself a cup of tea in the meantime," she rushed out of the flat, slamming the door behind her.

Sherlock stared at the door, listening as Molly Hooper raced down the stairs of her apartment building. He walked to the window of the living room and stared down at the street, watching to ensure she crosses the road safely.

He had to ask himself if he cared about Molly and the truth was, Sherlock questioned whether or not he was built to sustain such compassion and warmth for other people. He hates humanity and is only interested in their motives and who they are through deduction. Sherlock wasn't a social creature. But, truthfully, he believed he held Molly of great importance, maybe not as important as John, but Molly was important to him.

Sherlock thought of all of this while he stripped out of clothes and began running the water in the bath tub. Now that he was alone, he was able to really think about everything that had happened. He had to fake his own death to ensure his loved ones were safe, he had to lie to John and when the time was right he would reveal himself but until then he had to remain hidden from the world and in Molly Hooper's flat of all places.

He tested the water and dipped himself into the steaming bath and relished in the bliss of his muscles unwinding. And all while the hot water was running, he was lost in its droning sound and thinking of no one else other than Molly Hooper.

_It's surely because I just arrived here. I've never even seen her apartment._

Molly Hooper confounded Sherlock Holmes every time he came into contact with her. It was instantaneously that she would get nervous, stumble over her words and just stare at him for long periods of time. He wasn't an idiot, he was well-aware that she fancied him but for the life of him he was unable to understand why. It couldn't be because of his intelligence or genius deduction skills, because that is why everyone found him useful- no, there must be something else that he isn't seeing. Sherlock concluded that whatever she liked about him it must be miniscule and quite possibly because he reminds her of her father-

_Daddy issues. Makes sense. I fill a void. _

Sherlock reached for the soap absentmindedly and when squeezing the cream into his hands, realized it smelled just like Molly. It was fruity and light, he read the bottle and agreed that Molly did smell like black raspberry's and white tea. He sighed dismally and rubbed the shampoo in his air, making a mental note that he would have to ask Molly to pick him up some suitable bathroom supplies.

Once he was rinsed off and feeling cleaner and less bloody, he wrapped the towel around his waist and left the steamy bathroom. Sherlock walked out into the kitchen and began making himself a cup of tea wondering where Molly was.

Meanwhile, Molly was fumbling in her purse for her apartment keys while also juggling a few bags of clothes she had found for Sherlock. She tried to find appropriate wear concerning his style but also clothes that wouldn't break the bank. Once the door opened, she kicked her in way inside and at the sight of Sherlock in her kitchen, she dropped the bags at her feet.

"Sher-Sherlock!" her mouth was gaping open, and for the life of her she tried to close it. He was just standing in her kitchen, droplets of water fell from the ends of his dark, mass of curly hair and the only thing he had on was a towel, that was barely hanging onto his waist. Molly swore if she looked any longer it would surely fall off of him. "Um! Sorry- I- I'm sorry- I- got you some clothes and-and- oh God," she whispered, glancing at him once more and fumbling to grab the bags of clothes.

Sherlock stared at her confused and put down the cup of tea, "Let me help you-"

"No, NO!" she grabbed the bags, keeping herself pressed against the wall, "I can do it," she smiled, "Just- uh, I'll put them in our- my- your room, Sherlock's room. I'll put them in there and you can- can get naked-" she squeezed her eyes shut, "Sorry, I meant dressed." Her smile fell, gripping the bags tighter against her chest, "Sorry."

"Am I distracting you?" he asked, in the most serious tone.

"D-Distracting me? Uh-" she laughed, "However could you mean?"

"I don't know, that's why I'm asking," he narrowed his eyes, "Most people don't drop the same bags again and again unless something or someone is distracting them... or they have terrible coordination, which you don't."

Her eyes widened softly, "You know I have good coordination?"

Sherlock nodded slowly, "Yes," he approached her and took the bags from her arms, "Thank you, again. And yes, you do have good coordination, despite the fact you stumble over your words quite often."

"How do you know that?"

"Well, I've watched you walk before, of course. How else will I know about your coordination," he peered into the bag, "This will do wonderfully." Sherlock smiled slightly, his blue eyes were as light as sea foam, making her feel like a wave had knocked her over, stealing the air from her lungs. Molly could smell the scent of a warm shower on his skin and wanted so badly to just press her face against his chest. She imagined it felt wonderful.

"Y-You've watched me walk?"

"Why are you being so... strange?" he asked, "Hm. Oh," he added, "And next time you're out, can you pick me up some shampoo? I'd rather not smell like raspberry's. That is strictly a Molly scent."

She smiled, "A Molly scent?"

"Yes," he nodded, "Your shampoo. It must be your favorite since you always use it."

Molly was having a hard time focusing. Maybe Sherlock didn't realize what he was doing to her - oh yes he did, who was he kidding - but him standing so close, hair dripping wet and with a towel hanging desperately low, Molly was gawking at every part of his body but his face.

"Yes, you are my favorite- sorry, yes, it is my favorite," she stuttered, now staring solely up into the blue eyes that were as cold as ice but somehow they always made her warm.

"I imagine after being flat mates for some time, you won't feel as-"

"Yes," Molly answered quickly, feeling a deep blush creep up her neck.

He nodded, "Good. I'll get dressed then."

Molly watched Sherlock walk down the hallway and disappear into her bedroom. As soon as the door clicked shut, she sunk down the wall and covered her face with her hands.

This was going to be a lot harder than she ever imagined.


	2. Mourning

**A/N: **Thank you everyone for all the reviews and to those who placed this story in their favorites and those who are following! It means so much to get so much support for my first Sherlock fanfiction! I will try not to disappoint anyone! I was so nervous about this chapter, so please, please let me know how I did.

**Shannon Burns:** Thank you! And I hope you're just as pleased with future chapters!

**crooney83:** Can't feel too bad for Molly, she does get to see Sherlock in a towel. lol. There will be plenty more Sherlolly moments!

**cyprus1967:** Thank you! I was so worried that I wasn't writing Molly correctly.

**Renaissancebooklover108:** Exactly. That poor girl. XD Thank you!

**misssherl:** Thank you so much! I'm glad you're liking it so far! I'll try and be consistent with updating!

**CelticMyst777:** Thank you! You have no idea how happy I am to know I was on point with Sherlock and Molly; I was so intimidated to write Sherlock.

**louvreangel:** Thank you for your review! I am pleased to know you are happy with where the characters are!

**FareTheeWell221: **Thank you for the encouragement! I hope I meet your expectations of the story.

**ENJOY!**

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**2. Mourning**

It had been a week since Sherlock Holmes death and also since Molly acquired a new flat mate. In the matter of a few days her apartment had been turned upside down, Molly didn't recognize her once quaint flat anymore. Newspapers were scattered on her coffee table and the island in her kitchen, clippings had been cut and tacked to a specific wall in her living room. In the fridge, besides the cold cuts and cheeses, was a bag of severed fingers and jar of eyeballs. When she came home from work, she didn't come home to her tidy, warm home but somewhere else that was just as comforting, if not warmer. Sherlock had claimed his territory in her home and sometimes she thought it was like staring at a painting of two very different peoples lives meshed together.

Despite all the mayhem that followed Sherlock's faked suicide, Molly had only seen John once and her heart had broken at the sight of him. His hair had been undone and there were deep, purple bags under his eyes. The entire time she visited him at Baker Street he held a cup of coffee in his hands, battling the constant despair and weariness that came with Sherlock's death. Molly couldn't imagine being in John's shoes, she'd be devastated and torn. The mere thought of Sherlock Holmes actually being dead made gooseflesh rise on her skin, despite sitting in a hot, steaming bath.

Molly sunk lower in the soapy water, all but the top of her head. Today was the day she'd see John again, Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft, only everyone would be dressed in black, blowing their noses in handkerchiefs and everyone would know the truth about Sherlock except John. Molly believed Sherlock when he said he was lying to protect John but Molly had to see him everyday and lie, it made her sick to stomach.

Supposing it was time to start getting ready, Molly reached forward and opened the drain. She carefully stood up and began wringing the water out of her hair.

"Molly!" Sherlock called loudly, bursting into the bathroom.

"SHERLOCK!" Molly screamed, grabbing the shower curtain and hiding behind it.

"Oh!" he said, closing the door half-way, "You're _still_ taking a bath?"

Molly could feel her face burning, she was mortified, "Did you see anything?!"

"What?" he asked, as though the question was absurd.

"Did you see me, Sherlock?!" Molly was trembling, embarrassed and now getting cold that the water was draining.

"Er-" he hesitated, "No, I didn't see anything-"

"You're lying!" Molly shouted.

"So what if I am?" he questioned, "I've seen a woman's body before and yours-"

"What do you want, Sherlock?" Molly was still hiding behind the shower curtain, shivering. She really didn't want him to finish whatever he was saying.

"I was wondering what was taking so long-"

"I was taking a bath, Sherlock!"

"For an hour-?"

"Yes! An hour!" she could feel her entire body hot from embarrassment. If Sherlock Holmes was to ever see Molly Hooper naked, this is not how she pictured it: cold, shivering and embarrassed. "Anything else?" she asked, her voice was high-pitched and desperate.

"Uh- no, I suppose not," he said, rather dejectedly.

"Then, you mind closing the door?" Molly asked, peeking out from behind the curtain. "The steam is getting out and I'm starting to freeze."

"Right, I'll just, yes," Sherlock stumbled over his words and closed the bathroom door behind him.

Once Molly was sure Sherlock was out of her old bedroom, she quickly grabbed her towel and wrapped it around herself. She stalked like a skittish animal into Sherlock's room and saw the door was closed. She quickly got dressed, pulling on a pair of black pantyhose and a knee-length, short-sleeved black dress. At least if Sherlock burst in again, she'd be modestly covered. She was dreading having to look at him when she left the bedroom and contemplated whether or not to just lock herself in there for the rest of time. Still frazzled, she blow-dried her hair at record speed and grabbed her short, black heels and crept slowly from the bedroom.

Sherlock was sitting at the island in the kitchen, peering into a microscope. As quiet and careful as a mouse she walked into the kitchen when he looked up at her. The black heels she had been holding fell out of her hands, clambering to the floor.

Molly felt his calculating, frosty eyes look her up and down, finally landing on her face. She wanted to believe he was imagining what was underneath the black dress but the thought only made her entire body burn red and her stomach coiled.

She quickly retrieved her shoes and smiled nervously, tucking some hair behind her ear, "Um- did you have breakfast?" She sounded like a bird chirping, her words were short and squeaky.

Sherlock, however, narrowed his eyes at her, with his mouth slightly open, "You look..."

Molly looked down at the plain, black dress and back up at Sherlock, wondering what was circulating through his brilliant, complicated mind.

When Sherlock felt Molly's open, and curious stare, he shifted in his seat and looked back down at the microscope, "Like you're going to a funeral," he cleared his throat, focusing the lens.

"Um," Molly nodded, "Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment, merely an observation," he stated coolly.

"Right," she whispered, turning to make herself a cup of coffee.

"And no," he added, "I didn't have breakfast. Mrs. Hudson always took care of that."

"How about some eggs then?" Molly asked, "How do you like them?"

"Fried."

While Molly made breakfast she noticed the silence was so thick a knife couldn't cut through it. It felt like a huge wall was dividing Sherlock and Molly- even though there was always a wall, she could usually peek over the top of it to see him but now she didn't dare meet his eyes. Thinking about the shower incident only made Molly more nervous which made her want to eat more than just a couple eggs, even though she couldn't stomach it at the moment. The end result: two fried eggs, bacon, sausage, fried mushrooms and buttered toast.

When done, she turned around with both plates and would've nearly dropped them if Sherlock hadn't caught both of them.

How long had he been standing behind her?

"Um- sorry it took so long- thank you for catching those plates," she said, nervously, "Would've been a lot of wasted food and empty stomachs."

Sherlock stared down at the plates and back at her, "I thought you were making two eggs each."

Molly shrugged, rubbing the back of her neck, "Um, well, you didn't eat a big supper last night and I-"

"You cook food when you're thinking and nervous," he said, matter-of-factly.

"Yes, everyone does something to calm them down. I like cooking, I have to pay attention or I'll burn the food," Molly sat down at the table, accepting the plate Sherlock placed in front of her. She knew she wasn't going to be able to eat all of it but at least she wasn't as mortified as she had been before she started cooking. Now she could look Sherlock in the face and not want to hide in a hole somewhere.

Molly pushed her food around, waiting for Sherlock's reaction. It was the first full breakfast she'd ever made him and was curious to see if her cooking was up to par. As he dug into the food, she watched him squint at the plate, chew slowly and look up at her.

"This is... surprisingly good."

"Is that a compliment or an observation?" she asked, keeping her voice controlled.

He shifted in his seat, both staring at one another from across the table. Molly refused to say another word, leaving Sherlock to squirm in the awkward silence.

"I suppose it's a compliment..."

Molly smiled for the first time that morning, "Thank you, Sherlock."

Just as Molly had predicted, she didn't finish her breakfast and instead wrapped up the rest and placed it in the fridge, pushing the bag of severed fingers to the side. Sherlock was still working on his plate and watched Molly leave the kitchen and fumble through her purse, pulling out a tube of lipstick. He watched her stand in front of the mirror in the hallway, applying the very light, nude color.

When she turned around, she froze, staring back at him.

"I- uh, better be going then," she said, grabbing her purse.

Sherlock stood up from the table and crossed the kitchen to Molly. She melted under his gaze and kept her arms stiff at her sides.

"I still don't understand why you're going."

Molly smiled weakly, "You're dead to everyone else, I have to pretend that I believe that too..." her head fell slightly, unable to look at him, "Even though I don't want too."

"Why?" he asked, almost like a command.

She looked back up at him, blinking and said simply, "Because it breaks my heart imagining you dead."

"Even though I'm standing right here?" he questioned.

Molly didn't expect Sherlock to understand. He wasn't in love with someone who thought he was invisible. "The idea of you not being in my life, in _any_ way tears me apart," she could feel herself tearing up at the thought. She sniffed and smiled up at him, "I need to get going. I'll see you later."

She walked to the door and could feel Sherlock following behind her at a distance. She looked back up at him and like always when he was looking at her, she could never read him. Sherlock Holmes was a complicated mystery that made Molly Hooper's heart pound like an Indian war drum. Just as she was about to close the door, Sherlock stepped forward.

"You made a good choice."

She stopped, her hand on the doorknob, "What?"

"The lipstick," he said, simply, "Any woman who wears red lipstick to a funeral is trying to be the most beautiful woman there. Nude is subtle and appropriate," Sherlock smiled briefly, "I'm glad to know Molly Hooper would attend my funeral dressed appropriately."

Molly didn't know what direction the compliment was supposed to be going in and she didn't care. It was the nicest thing Sherlock has said to her all day and he noticed her. She could feel the familiar butterflies fluttering in her stomach, making her tingle like a lovesick teenager.

At a loss for words, Molly beamed like a tiny ball of light and closed the apartment door behind her, headed for Sherlock Holmes funeral.

Sherlock stared at the door momentarily, listening to the sound of Molly's heels tapping as she flew down the stairs. As if like clockwork, he stalked towards the living room windows and stared down, watching Molly hail a cab and disappear into the black, shiny car.

Once the cab was out of sight, Sherlock turned to face the apartment and felt the silence and loneliness begin to creep inside of him. He tried to focus on his current project, eyeing the specimen with God-like lens, but for the life of him couldn't stop thinking about the funeral, John and Molly. The perfume she had sprayed on herself still lingered in the apartment and Sherlock recognized it to be _Daisy_ by Marc Jacobs, a floral and light scent that only reminded him of Molly Hooper. He glanced at his half-eaten breakfast that she had made for him and decided he wasn't sitting around the apartment all day. Sherlock Holmes wouldn't dare miss his own funeral.

In a flurry, he jumped in the shower, still wondering why it had taken Molly so long that morning. He sighed, allowing the water to fall on his head like rain, as his brain went back to moments ago when he had burst into the bathroom, finding a completely naked Molly ringing out her hair and then hiding behind a shower curtain.

He had felt incredibly ashamed laying his eyes on Molly as he did. Of course, he'd pushed the silly emotion away but it still hadn't felt right. She hadn't wanted him to see her like that, he could tell from the horrid expression on her face and shivering form.

And then when she'd walked out in her black dress and tights, he stared, understanding completely why the fabric hung from her body the way it did. Sherlock Holmes had to look away, for fear he'd keep imagining what was beneath the black dress.

Pushing the thought of naked or dressed Molly Hooper out of his head, Sherlock finished showering and dressed. Grabbing a newspaper on his way out of the apartment, he hailed a cab, keeping his face almost entirely hidden from the world.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked.

"Kensal Green cemetery," Sherlock said.

"A funeral?" the cabbie asked, trying to make small talk.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I'm certainly not going for a party."

"Eh? Isn't that Holmes fella' getting buried there today? You goin' to his funeral?"

Sherlock smiled behind the newspaper, "I had no idea, I'll have to pay my respects."

When the cab pulled up to the cemetery, Sherlock went the alternate route and kept a far distance between the burial site and himself. He stood behind a tree, blending in with the dark shadows and damask mood of the boneyard. He could see John sitting in the front, in between Mrs. Hudson and Molly. Without surprise, Mrs. Hudson was balling as well as Molly, who held a handkerchief to her mouth the entire sermon.

Molly held onto one of John's hands while Mrs. Hudson held onto the other. What was killing her about the entire ordeal was Sherlock was safe and sound back at her apartment. There wasn't a scratch on him and yet she was crying like she'd love her best friend or ever her lover. Once the sermon was over and the guests started dispersing across the green cemetery, John, Mrs. Hudson and Molly were the last to remain.

All three of them stood stone silent. Molly watched the back of John's head, wondering when he was going to move and if he was going to say anything at all.

"John-" she whispered.

"I'm waiting for him to show up, you know," he said, his voice was hoarse and strained. "That he faked it all or something..."

The breath hitched in Molly's throat and her eyes burned with more tears.

John turned around, finally facing Molly, his hurt, light blue eyes brimming with painful tears, "But, you said he was dead. He was brought to St. Bartholomew's morgue."

Molly couldn't utter a word. He was directly asking her whether or not it was true and she knew in her heart there was only one answer she could tell John Watson, even though it was the wrong one.

"Y-Yes," she said, averting her eyes. "He's... dead." Molly looked nervously between Mrs. Hudson and John, "I have to go."

"Keep in touch, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, trying to smile past her own heartache and aggravation.

Molly nodded and left John and Mrs. Hudson, unable to stay any longer. She looked forward and stopped, seeing all the funeral guests had formed a massive group in front of the entrance. She didn't want to have to fight tooth and nail through their terrible whisperings about Sherlock and asking her questions. On top of this mornings embarrassment and lying to good, kind John Watson, Molly couldn't take it anymore. She had it in her right made to slap Sherlock when she saw him for putting John through this.

She dodged the mass of funeral guests and decided to take an alternate route out of the cemetery. Molly trudged across the soft grass, finding it difficult as her heels sunk easily into the soft earth. Just as she passed a massive, large and looming tree she froze, catching something out of the corner of her eye. She looked back and before she could let out a scream, Sherlock reached forward, clasping his hand over her mouth and holding her against his body.

"Don't make a sound, Molly," he whispered. "John cannot know I'm here."

Molly tore his hand off her mouth and turned around, "What are you doing here?! You're not supposed to be here! What if someone saw you? What if John saw you?!"

"He won't," Sherlock said, keeping his voice low. He glanced back towards John who was now completely alone and back at Molly. "What was he like? At the funeral?"

Sherlock's eyes were focused on Molly, prepared for whatever she was going to say. Molly sighed, thinking back to John Watson and the guilt that followed with it.

"Miserable," she said.

Sherlock nodded.

"He asked me if you were really dead," Molly was fighting back the tears, controlling the urge to scream at him and slap him for the pain he was putting everyone through. "He was hoping it was a stunt! And I had to tell him you were really dead! I was the one who had to take that away from him!"

"I know-" he began.

"Do you?" she questioned. "Do you really understand what it's like to lie to him about you?" Her lips were trembling and she inhaled deeply, quickly wiping the corners of her eyes. Molly looked back up at Sherlock and was confused by the look on his face.

"No," he answered slowly. "I don't. But, he has to be lied to, to protect him."

Molly was floored by the zeal and passion that shined in Sherlock's eyes. They reminded her of violent ocean waves or a typhoon. There was something wild and untamed behind them. She conceded, unable to continue yelling at him.

"I know," she nodded, turning away.

"Where are you going?" he asked, quickly, grabbing her by the wrist.

She looked down at his hand and back up at him, "Home. Where you're supposed to be."

"We can't leave," Sherlock said, "We could risk exposing ourselves to John. We either have to wait until he leaves or nightfall."

"N-Nightfall?" she asked.

"Molly," Sherlock began, "We can't-"

"Alright," she sighed, just as he released her wrist. Sherlock slid down the back of the tree, taking a seat. He patted the earth beside him and Molly followed. Their bodies were pressed and snug against each other, in hopes John wouldn't see them. She looked up at him, both of their eyes meeting silently when Sherlock averted his gaze, as something else had stolen his attention. Molly followed his stare to her legs where the hem of her dress was hiked up from sitting.

"Oh- um," she fumbled nervously, pulling down the dress slightly, causing Sherlock to look away quickly.

"I'm... sorry," he whispered suddenly.

Molly froze and looked over at Sherlock. The only time he ever apologized was when someone made him, never on his own accord. What could he possibly be apologizing for?

"What for?"

"This morning," he said, glancing at her and back out at the cemetery, "When I barged in on you."

Molly bristled with heat, thinking of the entire incident again. She shifted uncomfortably, wishing she was wearing a huge sweater and a pair of sweat pants.

"Oh-" she cleared her throat, "It's alright."

"If it's any consolation," he added, "Comparing your body to recent media expectations of a woman's body, yours is," he paused, "I suppose considered ideal. You have no reason to feel ashamed other than someone seeing you that you didn't want to-"

"Um- alright, t-thank you, Sherlock," Molly dropped her head, now completely mortified.

So, Sherlock had seen her body and had already formed an opinion of it. If there had been any hope for the two of them, the universe just kicked it right out the window.


	3. Alone

**A/N:** I just want to go ahead and thank all of my loyal reviewers and followers of this story. I did not expect to get the praise I have been, so thank you to everyone who has been so involved in the story with me! I'm having a lot of fun writing this piece and I only plan on making it more complicated, funny and juicier as it progresses!

**nothingcompaires:** Yay! Thank you so much for the praise, I'm really pleased with myself that I'm not disappointing anyone when it comes to my interpretations of Sherlock and Molly! I'm all about authenticity!

**Paisayshi:** Thank you! And I shall keep writing on!

**misssherl:** That's exactly what I was going for! He can't be overtly caring and display affection so easily - he wouldn't be Sherlock. Thanks! :)

**FareTheeWell221:** Thank you for your support! I'm trying very hard to keep them in character, I'm glad it's paying off! I absolutely love putting Molly in awkward situations and Sherlock being the source of them all just makes it that much better. Have I mentioned how much I love Molly yet? lol.

**louvreangel:** Thank you! And I'm so happy that you found it hilarious! I'm thrilled I'm writing him correctly!

**Shannon Burns:** :D SHERLOLLIED! Thanks!

**Lanceletta: **Thank you so much! I will try to keep updating the chapters consistently!

**Guest:** Thank you so much! I think this is my favorite theory too - SHERLOLLY!

**ENJOY! **

* * *

**3. Alone**

The few days that followed after Sherlock's funeral were a strange quietness. It was unsettling and the static mood kept Molly on her toes and all because of Sherlock Holmes. There was something off about him, something Molly couldn't place her finger on. After the day of Sherlock's funeral, his attitude had changed. They moved around one another like ghosts, their conversations were as light and translucent as mist. But, that wasn't what was throwing Molly off. She was used to Sherlock ignoring her, walking around her, never giving her a second glance. It was the miserable truth of their relationship. What was lacking was his complete rudeness towards her and total disregard. Instead, he was aware of her, but only when he didn't know she noticed. It was a terrible game that Molly didn't know the rules to; she didn't even know what they were playing but she had a feeling Sherlock did. It was scratching wildly inside of Molly, she was desperate to ask him if he was alright but he'd never go for such curious sympathy.

Then again, what did she have to lose if she asked?

"Why are you staring at me like that?"

Molly blinked and realized she'd been stirring her coffee for nearly five minutes. Sherlock was sitting in the living room furiously keying her laptop for research to sink himself into. His face was stern and slightly annoyed.

"Sorry, I was just-" she paused, holding onto his stare and then set down her cup. "Sherlock?"

He waited and when she said nothing, he cocked his head, "Yes?"

"Are you alright?" she walked into the living room nervously rubbing her hands together.

Sherlock squinted, "I am in perfect health."

Molly shook her head, "No- I mean, not physically... emotionally. You seem... gloomy."

_"Gloomy?"_ he narrowed his eyes, "You're describing a rain cloud."

"You've been acting different since the day of your funeral," Molly knew all of Sherlock's moods and attitudes, she was used to the distress he laid on her constantly.

Sherlock paused, glanced at the computer and back at Molly, "I'm fine."

Molly shook her head, "Are you sure-? I mean, I understand that you may be feeling guilty or lonely because of John but that's-"

His hand suddenly shot up, silencing Molly in a quick breath. Sherlock's eyes could cut like a cool, steel blade. "It has nothing to do with John. I do not feel guilty for what I did- I had to do it, or he would've been killed," he looked back at the computer screen and began typing away, "And I'm certainly not lonely. Definitely going insane from living in an obnoxiously bright apartment with a flat mate that can't accept resignation."

His words struck her like blue lightening. She froze as if made of stone, unable to move, scared to breathe too loudly.

When Molly didn't respond, Sherlock looked up from the computer and stalled at the sheer hurt marring Molly's face. It suddenly clicked what he said and something deep inside of him whispered that he probably shouldn't have said that.

Molly looked everywhere in the room but Sherlock and was suddenly very grateful that she had to leave for work. She quickly grabbed her bag and tossed it over her shoulder, finding her car keys inside of it. She shot Sherlock a look and inhaled a shaky breath, "I have to leave for work- um- I'll just-"

Sherlock shot up, still holding the laptop in his hands. His mouth was slightly open but nothing was coming out. They shared a pained and awkward silence before Molly turned away, flustering and shaken, and stopped when there was a knock at the door.

She quickly opened the door and her eyes widened immensely, stepping aside and allowing Mycroft Holmes inside her apartment.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, "What are you doing here?"

Mycroft glanced back and forth between Sherlock and Molly, eying both knowingly.

"Here to check up on you, making sure you're not causing me more problems," he smirked smugly, "You did just die, you know."

Sherlock smiled bitterly, "Oh, I'm well-aware, dear brother, I attended the funeral."

Mycroft's smug smirk disappeared and was replaced by an disapproving scowl, "Irresponsible _and _stupid. I wouldn't expect anything less."

Sherlock's eyes were slits and before he could retort, Molly spoke up, "If you're here to see Sherlock, I need to be going," she fumbled with her keys, finding the ignition key, "I have work."

"Don't be confused with brotherly sentiment, I'm not here to see my brother," Mycroft glanced darkly at Sherlock and looked back down at Molly, "I'm here to see you."

_"Me?!"_

"Her?!" Sherlock asked, staring endlessly at his brother for an explanation. He couldn't deduce any rational reason why Mycroft would want to speak to Molly.

Molly was thinking along the same lines. She never really sat down and spoke with Mycroft Holmes. She'd heard plenty about him through dark comments Sherlock would make about him, and on one rare occasion, bumped into him at Baker Street. And even then, he'd barely spoken a word to her.

"You work at St. Bartholomew's Hospital," Mycroft said, "My car is outside, my driver will drop you off."

"Um- are you sure? I don't want to inconvenience you or anything. The hospital is right in the middle of the city, the traffic is terrible-" Molly said, rambling.

Mycroft smiled, "I assure you, Miss Hooper, it is not an inconvenience for me. I wouldn't have come to your flat if it was," he glanced once more at Sherlock, threatening his younger brother with cold eyes and looked at Molly before leaving the apartment.

Molly glanced warily at Sherlock who looked as though he was staring bullets at his brother's back through the door.

"Sherlock?" Molly asked, her voice practically squeaking.

His eyes shifted to her, taking in her openly, sweet face and looked away. He steepled his fingers under his chin and began pacing the room, lost deep in deduction.

"Alright, um, I'll just see you after work," she closed the apartment door behind her and dropped her hand from the knob. The metal was cool beneath her fingertips reminding her of a corpse in the morgue. Molly was grateful she had work and could leave Sherlock to his silence. She'd had enough bullying for one day.

Molly walked out onto the street and stopped outside of a long, expensive black car. The driver opened the back door and Molly stepped in, sliding in besides Mycroft. Once the car took off, he spoke.

"I know my brother better than everyone, he tries to pretend I don't know who he is, what he thinks and feels, but I do," Mycroft looked down at Molly.

She nodded slowly, unsure of where Mycroft was going, "Well, you are his older brother."

"I could feel the tension emitting from your apartment before I even knocked on the door. I must ask, will you be able to _deal_ with Sherlock much longer?"

Still confused, Molly tried her best to answer his questions, "... I've never had to deal with Sherlock."

Mycroft smiled slightly, impressed by her modest cleverness, "No, you haven't. You don't deal with him, you enjoy him. That... I can't understand."

Molly sighed, "Sometimes. Other times..." she trailed off, "It's hard."

"I pass on my appreciation for taking him in for the time being," he scowled, "I'm afraid you'll have to deal with his moronic torture until all this mess is cleaned up. John Watson isn't doing so well, I'd rather not tell Sherlock myself."

Molly smiled hesitantly, "I was planning on getting in touch with John today..." she peered up at Mycroft, "And it isn't torture to have Sherlock around... not in the painful sense... well, then again-"

"Thank you," he looked at Molly just as the car pulled to stop in front of the hospital, "You are far too good."

Molly's eyes widened. She could barely receive a compliment from Sherlock and the older Holmes brother was being so kind to her and they barely knew one another. Her door suddenly opened and the driver stood the side. "What do you mean?"

The driver helped her out and just as she looked back at Mycroft, waiting for an answer, he simply said, "My brother."

The door closed and the car took off. Molly stared after the car confused, why did Mycroft Holmes sound so cryptic? What did her doing good things have to do with his disdain for his brother? It was a Thursday and Thursdays were never supposed to feel like Mondays. Already she'd been scorned by Sherlock's heartless words this morning and now Mycroft Holmes was talking about her and Sherlock cryptically. At least she was at work, maybe she could momentarily forget about this morning.

Meanwhile, across town Sherlock was wearing trenches into Molly's apartment floors. He hadn't stopped pacing since his brother and Molly had left, nor had he stopped deducing why Mycroft had driven across town to pick up Molly Hooper and drive her to work. Hundreds of possibilities continuously kept popping in his head but he discarded them like they were old news. Nothing he deduced fit and it was driving him mad. Sherlock had more of a reason to talk to Molly than Mycroft, so he could only imagine Mycroft _wanted_ to talk to Molly. Why on earth would he _want_ to do that?

Sherlock stopped pacing and stared at Molly's half-finished coffee from before she left. His mind wheeled back to their conversation and he remembered how struck she had been by what he said. He was stating cold, hard facts and a pathologist couldn't deal with that? Of course, he knew she fancied him but he wouldn't think that would get in the way of the truth. Maybe working on something would ease his mind, help him deduce more clearly.

Sherlock picked up a newspaper and began flipping through, looking for any strange occurrences that normally others would graze over. When he'd try to focus on something his mind would tumble back to Molly's downturned face- aggravated, Sherlock threw down the newspaper and sat back into the couch.

Why on earth was he thinking of Molly Hooper? Why, when he was trying to find a menial task to occupy his time, was he picturing her? It baffled him and he soon realized the only way he would know why is when he sees her again.

Sherlock looked at the clock.

_8:46 AM._

Eight hours and fourteen minutes to go_._

For the majority of the day at St. Bartholomew's hospital Molly was able to find some solace in her work, though because of this morning her day had been completely off. She normally didn't let what Sherlock say get the better of her, it was why she was always able to bounce back so quickly. She just couldn't understand why Mycroft had gone out of his way to see her, and leave her with such a cryptic message.

What did he mean when he said she was too good? And when she asked, he said his brother. Did he mean to say she was too good for Sherlock? But that would only matter if they were in a relationship, which they weren't, as Sherlock made it abundantly clear every day. The thought of John Watson suddenly popped into Molly's head and the part of her that cared and felt guilt, reached into her pocket and texted him.

_2:30 PM: How've you been?_

_2:34 PM: Getting along. How about you?_

_2:35 PM: I'm well. Was wondering if you wanted to catch up?_

Molly was nervous about the last text she sent. She didn't know how John would feel about seeing anyone, as Mycroft's words banged at the guilt center of her brain.

_2:37 PM: That sounds good. My new address is 234 A Wimbledon Street. Come by after work, I'll be here._

A new address? Molly was floored. She couldn't blame John for moving out of Baker Street, she imagined it brought back memories that were too painful for the heartbroken doctor. But, what about Sherlock? Would he expect John to do something like that? Either way, Molly would put on a smiling face for John, not only because he needed it but she did too. The guilt of lying had been eating away at her and maybe seeing John doing better would ease her conscious.

**. . .**

Meanwhile, Sherlock had been waiting anxiously all day at the apartment for five o'clock to strike. He knew that in twenty minutes Molly would be walking through her front door and she'd be smiling or in an incredibly good mood and his mind wouldn't keep reverting back to this morning. He didn't know why he'd been ill all day because of it but it didn't matter. As soon as she came home, he would be able to progress normally and not keep thinking about Molly. But, when 5:20 came and went, Sherlock started getting antsy. He stood at the living room windows, staring down at her street, waiting for a black cab to pull up and drop her off. He waited for minutes, quickly deducing that the traffic might be heavier than usual or that she had to stop by the store.

But, his deductions were wrong as London was always dependable when it came to its consistently, mundane, heavy traffic and Molly had went shopping two days ago. As all the normal options began to dwindle, Sherlock's mind began to spiral into darker conceptions. What if he had miscalculated his faked death? What if someone had noticed Molly Hooper? What if she was captured, beaten or worse? Sherlock began to pace wildly back and forth, hands on his waist, stealing dangerously dark glances between the living room windows and the door.

He remembered Molly saying she'd see him after work. Molly hadn't made plans and it wasn't like her to just create ones, she was a homebody and didn't have a sparkling social life. When the clock struck 6:10, Sherlock knew something terrible must've happened and he wouldn't sit around an apartment waiting for Mycroft to tell him horrid news with Molly Hooper's named attached. He grabbed his coat and scarf and flew from the apartment as though someone's life depended upon it.

Molly was glad she'd texted John Watson earlier that day. Though his mood was as damask as ever, which Molly didn't expect to change any time soon and couldn't blame him, his company was nice.

"So, how's work been?" he asked.

John had took it upon himself to make a light dinner for both of them, sheepishly admitting to Molly that cooking helped him when it came to dealing with loss. They both sat at the small dinette, forking their dinners and enjoying light conversation.

"Same old, really," Molly smiled, "Nothing really changes in my corner of the medical field."

John grinned, "You know, if I'd met you on the street, I'd never think you were a pathologist working in a morgue," his grin fell into a saddened, relaxed grimace, "I think that has a lot to do with why Sherlock was always so stumped by you."

Molly's lips froze on the rim of her wine glass and pulled it away, "...What?"

John nodded, chewing his food and swallowing, "What?"

"What do you mean... stumped? How could I possibly-" she cleared her throat, realizing her mistake, "I-I mean, I could I _have_ ever stumped Sherlock?"

"He never said anything to me but he didn't have to," John shrugged. "I'm not saying he couldn't deduce you, he did. I just don't think he understands, well," he rubbed the back of his neck, struggling to find the right words to say, "Why you enjoyed his company so much, why you liked him when... well," he said, his voice softening, "He never returned similar... affections."

Molly could feel her face burning and she quickly drank some wine, hoping a buzz would soon kick in. She didn't say anything but she didn't need too. John was staring knowingly across the table at her with sympathetic half-smile.

"Molly," he said, "Don't feel embarrassed. There's no need to now," he added glumly. "Sherlock didn't understand the meaning of unconditional or unrequited. You're a very unselfish person, Molly, and I don't think Sherlock could understand how someone so good like you could bother with people like..." John sighed, pushing his food around on his plate.

Molly had finished her glass of wine and set it down on the table. Her heart warmed at the compliments John was giving her; despite all of his loss and pain he was able to make others feel better. He really was a sweetheart. He understood all the dark, heavy faults that Sherlock had carried with him, that he wasn't a perfect person but quite the opposite. Molly and John had far more in common when it came to Sherlock Holmes. They liked him, hell, loved him despite all of the qualities that made the world turn away from him. They saw the light in him that flickered only in shadows.

Molly realized, John understood why she was in love with Sherlock Holmes when the rest of the world never could.

**. . .**

"Am I going to have to attach a ball and chain to your ankle, dear brother?"

Sherlock was pacing Molly's apartment, glaring at his brother and the two muscle men that were standing on either side of the door.

Mycroft pointed his umbrella towards the living room windows, "One of you better stand over there, he has a tendency to jump out windows."

"You cannot control my every move," Sherlock spat.

"I can certainly do my best," Mycroft looked to his brother, noticing him stealing glances at the windows and looking anxiously to the door. "A bit antsy, Sherlock? And all over Molly Hooper?" he grinned knowingly, approaching his sibling.

Sherlock's eyes widened and then narrowed, "It's nine o'clock at night, Mycroft! She's been missing for four hours! Molly always arrives at her flat between 5:20 and 5:30!"

"Four hours is hardly considered _missing_," he smirked, "She isn't hiding away like you, she's allowed to roam London as she pleases," his smirk turned fowl, "But, not you! Not when I've put all of my resources into making sure you are safe because of that stunt you pulled!"

"I am not sitting around waiting, Mycroft! That is why I get the cases I do- because people sit around and wait!" Sherlock yelled, his voice thundering with rage towards his brother.

Mycroft's mouth opened slightly and he smiled, "Do I detect that you are worried about Molly Hooper? That you might _care_ about her safety and whereabouts?"

Sherlock's eyes were that of two blue slits. His mouth cracked open to retort when the apartment door suddenly swung open, revealing a very concerned and confused Molly Hooper.

She jumped at the sight of the two muscle men and stepped aside as the one standing beside her silently closed the door behind her.

"What's going on?" she asked, her voice suddenly distressed. "Is something the matter?"

Mycroft smiled, "How was your dinner with John, Molly? Is he doing well?"

Sherlock tore his eyes away from Molly, staring daggers into the side of his brother's face, "You knew where she was this entire time?"

"Of course I did, and it certainly proved a point," he stepped away from Sherlock grinning smugly, "If anything happened to my dear brother's keeper then I would have to watch after you personally and I certainly don't have the time for that."

"Someone mind telling me why, well," she threw her hands out, "Everyone is in my living room?" Molly glanced at Sherlock who was staring at her like she was the only thing in the room, as if nothing else existed around her. It sent unfamiliar chills down her body and she had to look away from him for fear she'd turn into a puddle under his azure gaze.

"Sherlock decided to scour all of London looking for you for fear you had been hurt-" Mycroft began.

"Obstructed," Sherlock shot the word out of his mouth like a bullet.

"Luckily, I have been having certain people watch after this flat in case he did something reckless," Mycroft grinned knowingly at Molly, "Like looking all over the city for you," he chuckled, "And all because you were a few hours late from returning home."

When neither Molly or Sherlock said anything to one another, Mycroft took that as his cue to leave. "Stay inside, Sherlock. Do not leave again or next time I will order the guards to use force."

"Like a prisoner?" Sherlock spat.

"You _are_ a prisoner when you're not _really_ dead, Sherlock," Mycroft gave his brother one last final look of judgment and glanced at Molly, smiling lightly and leaving the flat.

Once the door shut behind the three visitors, Molly slowly looked back at Sherlock who was still staring at her as he had been before.

"I-"

"You were at John's?" he asked with such demand she knew he'd want a direct answer.

"Y-Yes," she said, "I went by to see how he was doing." Molly was still floored by coming home to more than she bargained for. "You know you're not supposed to leave the flat-"

"You should've mentioned this morning that you wouldn't be home at 5:20. Everyone knows the longer a person is missing the higher the probability something dangerous has happened," Sherlock's words were dripping with conceit and malice.

"It wasn't a concrete plan-"

"Obviously," he said, stepping closer towards her, "Which isn't _you._ If you'd been planning on seeing John today you would've said something before you left, but you didn't, which only leaves me to believe Mycroft said something to you- what did he say to you this morning? Why did he bother?"

Normally, Molly would've crumbled under his scrutiny and demand for answers but she stood firm. "If he wanted you to know, don't you think he would've included you in the conversation?"

Sherlock's eyes widened, floored by her strength.

His arrogant stoicism took her off guard but Molly remained steadfast in her words. When he said nothing but shift his eyes everywhere in the room, Molly removed her purse and walked into the kitchen. She felt Sherlock behind her and knew the argument wasn't over yet.

"You know the crazy genius' and lunatics I face on a daily basis," his voice was raging with heat, "And you have little resources physically and mentally to ward off an attacker! I miscalculated you- you are far more foolish than I ever gave you credit for."

As he said this, Molly was pulling out a pot to start making dinner when she slammed it on the stove and turned to face him. She'd had enough for one day, from the moment she woke up to coming home, her day had been confusing and stressful and all because of him!

"And you think I don't know that?!" She threw her hands in the air, "You think I don't know that you surround yourself with dangerous situations and lunatics, Sherlock? Sometimes _you_ can be so daft!"

He scoffed, "Daft? If anything was to happen to you I'd be the only one that would know considering I'm the only person that is consistently in your life. You better hope I'm not daft when the day comes-"

"And you care?!" She was seething, spitting red at him. "The last _RIGHT_ you have is to act like you care, Sherlock! We both know you could care less about me and if someone attacks me- you'd be more interested in _WHY or HOW-" _she breathed heavily, "N-Not that that doesn't make your brilliant b-but," she slacked her shoulders, suddenly tired from her outburst, "Don't act like you care..." her voice was soft now, the last of her anger dying on her compassionate words, "When you don't."

Molly looked up at Sherlock. Her insides froze at how still he was standing but completely unbound. His eyes were averted and his brow crinkled in a way that told Molly he was confused. But, Sherlock was almost never confused. The silence was growing stale between them and she suddenly didn't have the strength or will to make dinner for Sherlock.

She moved and stepped around him when he suddenly reached out and grabbed her arm, stopping her.

"Wha-?"

He turned to face her so swiftly if Molly blinked she would've missed it. Both of his hands were suddenly gripping her shoulders, making Molly shudder warmly under his determined grip. His gaze was entirely focused on her, never averting his stare or losing interest. When he looked at her like that, she felt like the most important person in his world.

"I wouldn't have jumped off a building for John if I didn't care..." his voice was quiet yet it boomed inside of her head. "I wouldn't have searched London if I didn't-" but, Sherlock stopped himself short and pulled away from Molly as though he'd touched fire.

She suddenly missed his hands on her. "Sherlock-?"

The intimate focus was gone in the blink of an eye. Sherlock looked everywhere in the kitchen but Molly, suddenly very confused.

"I-uh-" he cleared his throat, "You're back now... there is nothing to fret about," he smiled weakly down at her and clasped his hands behind his back. "Toby was scratching at your sofa for most of the day and meowing at the door which indicates he missed his owner... he requires your attention immediately... unless you want to lose a sofa-" Sherlock's piercing blue eyes found Molly's sparkling, brown ones and turned away before he got lost in their color any further.

Molly's chest was tight and she was out of breath. "Where are you-?"

"My room!" he yelled from down the hallway.

"What about-" Molly ran out of the kitchen when the bedroom slammed shut, echoing throughout the flat, "dinner?"


End file.
